The Horizon Leans Forward...: Stories of Courage, Strength, and Triumph of Underrepresented Communities in the Wind Band Field

PART I

Chapter One

A TALE OF TWO AMERICAS

Alfred L. Watkins

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.

— CHARLES DICKENS, A Tale of Two Cities

The wounds of racism in America are deep and cast a huge shadow over American life. These wounds, originated over four hundred years ago, are woven deep into the psyche of so many colleagues that it will require involvement from those who have previously remained silent. Silence is no longer a virtue but tacit approval for those who make efforts to imprison the minds, dreams, and aspiration of others. This institutional racism, sometimes barely conscious, clearly blocks any potential for all citizens to be totally free of the scornful nightmare of bigotry, racial superiority, and discrimination. We no longer want a more perfect union but a just and fair society. The words of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., spoken seventy-five years ago, still ring true today, In the end, we are remembered not by the words of our enemies but the silence of our friends.

The objective of this chapter is to offer a personal examination into bigotry, discrimination, and institutional racism many African American band directors experience in their everyday lives. Hopefully it will demonstrate how racism is often present in all facets of the African American experience as simply the way we’ve always done things. It is intended to generate interest and encourage privileged musicians an opportunity to view the world through the eyes of their darker brother. I am a heterosexual sixty-six-year-old African American male, married for thirty-seven years to the same woman, with two adult sons and one grandson. I have chosen to use my personal experiences to navigate you through this chapter by sharing stories and narratives of my life.

Whenever I am asked to discuss my past experiences as a band director and educator as it relates to race, to answer the question appropriately, I seem to always rely on poetry, great writers, and personal heroes for inspiration. My past is peppered with horrible occurrences and moments of unbelievable joy. Although Charles Dickens’s A Tales of Two Cities was written in 1859 for another era and comparison, I find the quote above to be perfect for my account of growing up Black in America and, in my case, of life as a high school band director and music educator. When asked the question as to what place racism has played in my life as a teacher, they have always been inextricably linked.

… AND SO IT BEGINS

It all began for me in my birth year of 1954. Life in the rural South was filled with racial hatred, discrimination, terrorism, oppression, and separate-but-unequal facilities. Ironically enough, it was also filled with fun, family, friends, great events, excitement, and pure joy. I was born in the small town of Jackson, Georgia, located in the center of the state and less than an hour’s drive from Atlanta, Georgia’s largest city. We’ve all seen towns much like my hometown before, on postcards or in history books representing the Heart of Dixie, which within itself has very racist intent. Dixie represented the Southern U.S. states, especially those that belonged to the Confederate States of America (1860–1865). The name came from the title of a song Dixie, composed as a marching song of the Confederate Army. It was often considered the Confederate anthem and was generally accompanied by the rebel flag, or as many citizens called it, the Stars and Bars.

Jackson, Georgia, is a small rural, industrial community surrounded by tall Georgia pines, Wednesday worship services, and Saturday night softball games. At the time of my childhood, it had a population of 3,000 and was mostly unimpacted by the big city except for the news and local television broadcasts. Thankfully, Atlanta was only a day trip away. At first glance, it was all so innocent. I’ve heard our little town referred to as a great place to raise a family or a place to enjoy baseball, hot dogs, and apple pie. Those expressions may have been appropriate for the Whites in part of our community but not for my side of the tracks. My side of the tracks was littered with White oppression, discrimination, racial injustice, bigotry, and terrorism.

At the center of town was a red brick two-story county courthouse with four traffic lights on each corner and guarded by larger-than-life statues of Confederate soldiers on the northwest and southwest corners. The soldiers stood erect with a long rifle anchored near their right foot. They were hoisted on a pedestal that had the words Our Heroes etched into the base. These statues and the quotation were an obvious homage to slavery and to the first few words of the song Dixie: I wish I was in the land of cotton, where old times were not forgotten … Dixie Land. I never wished I were in the land of cotton and have always been highly insulted with these references to the Confederacy and that fight song. The statues are still standing in the same place today. I hated looking at them and resisted what they represent. In Jackson, we had one pharmacy, a few local shops, a couple of small department stores, two grocery stores, and several service stations. There were two or three restaurants in town that didn’t serve our Black community from the front door. African Americans were required to go around to the colored window in the rear of the property to order and receive our food. The inside seating areas were small and not particularly well kept. We were allowed to only get prescriptions filled at the pharmacy on Saturday afternoons, around the same time that grocery stores allowed for Blacks to enter. Home remedies saved the day, and most Black folks took care of their own. Midwives were good church ladies who would supervise a woman’s pregnancy and were always present for the delivery. I was fortunate to have been delivered by a doctor. However, hospitalization was out of the question. I was born in my grandparents’ spare bedroom. Prenatal care was unheard of.

There were two doctors’ offices and a dentist office in our little town, but all three had segregated waiting rooms. The side of the room for Whites was well furnished, had proper heating and cooling with comfortable chairs, good lighting, and magazines to read while you waited to see the doctor. The Black waiting room was dimly lit, lacked ventilation, and had a couple of metal folding chairs in the corner. There was always a long planter with tall plants right down the center of the room with the clear intent to separate the patients. I always wondered why Blacks just knew which side was the Black side, but it appeared to be an upgrade from previous years.

The local dentist seldom used Novocain on African Americans whenever we would get tooth extractions and fillings. Teeth cleanings were not a part of our dental care options. As a young child, I vividly recall sitting in the dentist chair overhearing my dentist state to the nurse, We don’t waste Novocain on the n*****.¹ Pain and dentist have always been synonymous to me.

Even the Butts County Courthouse was essentially for Whites only, as African Americans could only go there to take care of their business on Friday afternoons. There were Whites only and colored only signs all over town, including the restroom facilities in the dirt basement of the courthouse. The colored only signs were in our tax-funded courthouse where local electors administered the discriminatory voting practices for my relatives and neighbors. They administered illegal literacy tests (e.g., name all of the fifty state capitals) or jellybean tests (e.g., name the number jelly beans in a jar) and other ridiculous deterrents to voting as they would welcome White citizens standing right behind my relatives free access to the voting room. Any answer an African American person gave would always be incorrect. Strangely, I watched my older brother, father, and fraternal grandfather register to vote on the same day. My grandfather was seventy years old, but he lived long enough to see the Voting Rights Act of 1965. My maternal grandfather didn’t live long enough, as he died a few months before at the age of seventy-six, never being able to vote in America. As an African American community, we were told to pick yourself up by your bootstraps, but that was difficult to do since boots were never issued to us. Did these people not realize we were studying U.S. history and U.S. government in our classes? Was it not tough enough to look at the row of U.S. presidents in our social studies classroom and never see anyone who looked like us? Welcome to the Jim Crow South!

DEFAULTED ON A BAD CHECK

Jim Crow laws were state and local laws that enforced racial segregation in the Southern United States. These laws were enacted in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries by White Democratic lawmakers (Dixiecrats) who dominated state legislatures. The laws were intended to disenfranchise and remove political and economic gains made by Blacks during the Reconstruction Period shortly after slavery ended in 1863. The Jim Crow laws were enforced until 1965, shortly after the U.S. Congress passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which prohibited discrimination of public facilities, made employment discrimination illegal, and called for full integration of the schools. The pivotal Voting Rights Act of 1965 prohibited discrimination in voting even though the Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution of 1870 gave every American the right to vote. These laws were drafted shortly after the famous March on Washington where Dr. King gave his famous I Have A Dream speech and two years after the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

It took a special resolve for African Americans in that region of the country just to survive. They remained steadfast that God was on their side. Church songs, spirituals, and gospel music flourished in the churches and inside of the home as a culture of determination and courage anchored in meaningful prayer was their salvation. They also had the unique ability to raise future generations to hold your head up, stand up straight and you can be anything you set your mind to. Through it all, we were encouraged to never succumb to hate and anger, as those were the traps of death at the hands of our oppressors and in direct conflict with the teachings of the Biblical tenants of faith, hope, and love that anchored our lives. My parents, Oscar and Lucy Watkins, were good church-going people who raised us that love, and not hate, was the secret to life. They were high school graduates who believed that education was a critical key to a secure future. My mother’s favorite quote to me, which has guided me for a lifetime, was, Alfred, whatever you put into your brain is yours and no one can ever take that away from you. My three siblings and I were one of the first families in my hometown where all the children graduated from a four-year college. In spite of what they had experienced, they believed in love, decency, and the value of education. My parents died in 1984 and 1992. My parents, grandparents, church, and teachers formed a web of determination and decency around us. We could not fail.

THE EARLY YEARS

As a young child, I was surrounded by my family, the church, our neighborhood, and a school full of teachers, administrators, and classmates who looked just like me. For my first ten years of schooling, my schoolteachers and administrators were all Black. Since our town was very close to Atlanta, we were able to attract excellent educators who could commute from the city. We attended a small Baptist church with a long and rich history and a line of great preachers. While there, I was showered with love, affection, leadership opportunities, and a strong belief in basic Christian ethics and morals, which have guided me for a lifetime. The Black church was usually our safe haven, as Whites very seldom attended in our services and vice versa. The eleven o’clock hour has often been referred to as the most segregated hour in America. The church was very nurturing and a place for freedom of expression and worship. On occasions and without cause, the KKK would burn down a Black church. It was very tragic. When this happened, we would rally around our neighbors, help them rebuild, and strengthen our resolve that God would make a way for us. The Klan would also arbitrarily burn down a house in our close-knit community. Our parents hung onto our outgrown clothes just in case they had to share them with a neighbor who had been burned out by the Klan.

To most African American people in Jackson, a college education for Black males was not within the normal order of things. My parents, who both had high school diplomas, believed that a good education was the key to future success. As a result, all three of my siblings and I graduated from four-year colleges, had no run-ins with the law, and became productive citizens to society.

As a teenage boy, I was bursting at the seams with boundless enthusiasm for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. As my understanding of American history evolved, it became more evident that my small town, and much of the rest of America, was sweltering with racism and White entitlement.

To a young African American kid in America, it was all so confusing. We looked at the pictures of the Presidents of the United States above the blackboard in every social studies classroom every day. We placed our hands over our heart and recited the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag every day. I knew something didn’t add up, but the systematic racism was overwhelming and was in every facet of our lives.

As a young trumpeter, I had dreamed of playing in the symphony orchestra that I read about in books and saw on television, but there were no Blacks onstage. Watching Leonard Bernstein and his Young People’s Concert, I would mimic Bernstein conducting the New York Philharmonic and wanted to be like him one day—but there were no Black conductors to be found. Even the children in the Carnegie Hall audience were White. This was my first recollection of how racism had already impacted my life.

As we began studying the U.S. Constitution and the Declaration on Independence in school, the words just never made any sense. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights. Really? Even the author of the words, Thomas Jefferson, had over six hundred slaves, including his concubine slave girl, Sally Hemming, with whom he had fathered several children. It was very confusing to me that America had been involved in the horrible practice of slavery that identified my ancestors as property and livestock.

MY EARLIEST MUSICAL INFLUENCES

My early musical influences came from the church and from listening to an eclectic assortment of music sounded around our house. My maternal grandfather, Duffie Lee Watson, Papa Duffie, was born in 1888 in Jackson, Georgia, and was a member of his church Sacred Harp’s shaped note singing group. They would meet after church in the parlor of his home once a month. As a rather precocious five-year-old, I can still remember his bass-baritone voice establishing tonic before the singing began. They read music when some of them could barely read words. Most of their parents were likely slaves, but no such discussion occurred on those days. As most youngsters did, I just wanted to be around my grandfather, but I was fascinated with all of the beautiful singing. I can still see that room now, as it is carved into my memories. Little did I know that this was truly the genesis of my interest in music. I inherited his musical ear and was given his middle name, Lee.

My maternal grandparents were sharecroppers, a common practice in the Deep South after the abolition of slavery. I recall helping him gather up crops and take them to the White folks house only a stone’s throw away from their front porch. I knew something was odd when the owner of the big house was never kind to any of us and referenced my grandfather in the rudest of manner. It was also common to hear racial epithets.

Little did I know that in addition to developing a love of music, those singing sessions were a study of good pitch, sonority, melodic line, and the joy of making music, which has been at the cornerstone of my professional career. Papa Duffie passed away in 1964 at the age of seventy-six years old. He was a fine Christian man, good husband, father, brother, and most importantly, a great grandfather to this ten-year-old kid who shared his love of music with him. He was a leader in his community and lived a life of service and respect for all.

KKK ENTERS

When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.

— MAYA ANGELOU, American Poet Laureate

Since the schools in Georgia were segregated until my junior year, we learned to survive as children without much interface with the White community. Lots of yes sir and no sir but never in a threatening tone of voice. We heard stories about people being burned out by the Ku Klux Klan, harassed by law enforcement, placed in separate-but-unequal schools, staging lunch counter protests, and being treated unfairly in just about every aspect of our lives. But we were shielded from much of those things. Our parents wanted our self-confidence to remain intact. My parents did a wonderful job of shielding us from these situations until I reached my age of understanding, which for me was around twelve years old.

Pivotal events of my early teenage years were occasional marches through the town square by members of the KKK. At the age of thirteen, I witnessed the Klan march down the streets of my hometown. I was both angered and saddened to see that so many people hated me merely because of the color of my skin. It was not an uncommon occurrence, as they were clearly a terrorist organization and used the marches—complete with white robes, flailing nooses, and tiki torches—to express their hatred. They clearly intended to frighten the Black citizens and to recruit more racists into their ranks. Klan rallies were completely off-limits in my household. Our parents would not allow for us to witness this spectacle and wanted to make sure we stayed clear of these very mean individuals.

Typically, I followed their suggestions, with the exception of one time. A few friends and I were riding our bikes when we stumbled upon one of these Klan marches. We kept our distance and were never seen by the Klan or the White townspeople. Being inquisitive, we were interested to see exactly who these people were. What kind of person would be involved in this type of mean-spirited and hateful activity? We overheard a person say that their cars were parked in a field on Brownlee Road. We knew the exact location, so off we went through the woods to find a nearby hilly area with hopes of looking down below on the marchers as they finished the march and retreated to their cars. As one would expect, the Klansmen arrived in a few minutes and approached their cars, which were all parked snugly together. We were both frightened and anxious to see their faces. Shockingly, as they disrobed, we saw all of the town’s law enforcement drop their robes and torches off into their police cars while wearing their uniforms. They were still on duty! We saw our elected officials, attorneys, judges, civic leaders, nurses, business owners, teachers, and school administrators, all disrobing and getting into their cars. That moment is etched in my mind. From that point on, it was easy to understand that the nation’s laws, Constitution, and any methods of governance did not include me or members of my race. For me, the genie was very clearly out of the bottle.

EARLY YEARS IN THE SCHOOL BAND

I began my musical studies in the fifth grade on the flutophone. The flutophone is a pre-band instrument in the recorder family. It was very inexpensive and made of lightweight plastic. It had a natural range of one octave but could be expanded to two octaves if you overblew the lower octave. Our music teacher taught the class to read notes and rhythms, and we played simple songs from the method book. Away from the music classroom, I explored other sounds by playing songs I’d heard on the radio and in church (mostly gospel). I improvised melodies I composed myself and, strangely enough, I learned to play melodies I had learned from watching Leonard Bernstein’s weekly summer telecasts of his Young People’s Concerts. The flutophone was a great educational tool as I was steadily developing my ear, a musician’s most valuable asset. I loved playing my flutophone.

As a seventh grader, I decided to play trumpet in the school band. As with most students in the rural and segregated South, I began on a school-owned instrument until I firmly made the decision to continue, at which time my parents purchased one for me as a ninth grader. In the segregated and separate-but-unequal system, the school board determined that Blacks would receive our school buses, textbooks, desks, chalkboards, and instruments that were often discarded from the White school. As a result, my first cornet only had a first and second valve. The third valve was completely missing, leaving me only a valve casing. I loved playing that old, flawed trumpet, as it was a pathway to playing in the band. In place of playing notes incorporating the third valve, I placed my finger down into the casing and hummed the note to myself. I was actually quite helpful in developing my ear, as I began to audiate as I played. My third finger on my right hand had a small scar for years. It wasn’t ideal but was a matter of survival. Audiation is a process of mentally hearing and understanding music even when no music is present. This unfortunate technique was actually extremely pivotal to my overall musical development. What began as a deterrent actually became the cornerstone of my next fifty-five years as a musician, always listening. I played that valve-less trumpet for one year and received a three-valved trumpet the following year. My parents purchased my first trumpet shortly after that. But it was the flutophone and a flawed trumpet that made it all happen.

HIGH SCHOOL YEARS

Despite the fact that during my birth year of 1954 the United States Supreme Court unanimously passed the landmark ruling of Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, which desegregated the schools in America, the former Confederate states lobbied the government to give them additional time to prepare their communities for the racial change. The Brown ruling was one of the cornerstones of the civil rights movement and helped establish the precedent that separate-but-equal education and other services were not, in fact, equal at all. In the fall of 1970, the schools in my hometown and throughout the Deep South were finally desegregated. I was a high school junior. The enrollment of the combined high school was 750 students and my graduating class was 125. This was one of the most pivotal stages of my life. For centuries, in nearly every facet of American life that was controlled by Whites, we were told that the African American was inferior to Whites. For the first time in my lifetime we were placed in the classroom with White students. My oldest brother, Fred, had been class valedictorian of his class at Henderson High School (the Black school) and had gone on to graduate from Morehouse College. My older brother, Theotis, also an excellent student, had graduated from the Black high school and was a student at Albany State College. I had high aspirations as a student and was also on track to be class valedictorian of my class at Henderson. I attended the Black school for two years and the integrated school for my final two years of high school.

As Black students in the new environment, we all wondered how we would fare academically with our White classmates. I vividly recall the results from the first series of tests. I made mid- to upper-level A’s and perhaps a B+. We were all anxious to hear the results from the tests in our advanced academic classes. In all of the classes, Black students were either at the top or near the top of every test taken. I knew I would be just fine in this mixed environment and never looked back again.

After about a week of classes, the students got along very well. We learned the idiosyncrasies of each other, tore down racial barriers, and had a terrific final two years in high school. Disagreements were few and kept at a minimum. Some of my dearest friends in life came from that two-year span of time. We learned the valuable lessons of equality and discussed issues openly in class. My self-confidence had not been shattered but strengthened. Those years would be very valuable to me, as ten years later I became director of bands at Lassiter High School with a school population of 99.5 percent White people.

I played the trumpet in the band. My band director and eventual musical mentor was Mr. Andrew J. Buggs Jr. He was an exceptional clarinetist, classical pianist, and excellent singer. He played all of the instruments well. He was a graduate of my eventual alma mater, Florida A&M University, and was a positive role model in my life. The Black school, Henderson High and Elementary School, had a strong program in both marching and concert band. Our program numbered around eighty members. On the other hand, the White school, Jackson High School, had a very small band of less than ten members and wasn’t very good at all. Our Black football team had a very successful record. The White school’s football team hadn’t won a game in years. When the school board combined the two schools, all of our African American heroes were missing. Our principal, football coach, counselor, and Mr. Buggs were assigned to the junior high. The White band director was going to lead the band. African American students, parents, and community leaders lobbied the school board to make the appropriate adjustment and place Mr. Buggs and the football coach in their rightful positions. The school board conceded. Our high school band director, Mr. Buggs, was awarded that position for two years but was sent to the junior high the year after I graduated. The only reason Mr. Buggs wasn’t named head band director in the first place was strictly due to his race. It was at that time I was faced with fighting racism head on. Once again, I was anxious to take on the challenge.

Studies have shown that racism is a belief that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race. Since Black and White are at the cornerstone of our historical racial divide, and for discussion purposes, I have chosen to allow the Merriam-Webster Dictionary to define White and Black, as it pertains to race, for us.

White (adjective/noun)

1.being a member of a group or race characterized by light pigmentation of the skin

2.of, relating to, characteristic of, or consisting of white people or their culture

3.free from moral impurity, innocent

4.not intended to cause harm

5.favorable; fortunate

6.a person belonging to a light-skinned race

7.a member of a conservative or reactionary political group

8.marked by upright fairness

Black (adjective/noun)

1.of or relating to any of various population group having dark pigmentation of the skin

2.dirty, soiled

3.evil or sinister; wicked

4.indicative of condemnation or discredit

5.connected with or invoking the supernatural and especially the devil

6.very sad, gloomy

7.characterized by hostility or angry discontent

8.distorted or darkened by anger

MY FAMU YEARS

A mind is a terrible thing to waste.

— UNITED NEGRO COLLEGE FUND

I had the pleasure of attending Florida A&M University (FAMU Class of 1976), Tallahassee, Florida, for my undergraduate studies in music education. One of the true values of a historically Black college education is their ability to develop their students musically, socially, and emotionally. At FAMU, it was not uncommon for all of our teachers to be an African American PhD or DMA. FAMU Director of Bands Dr. William P. Foster was considered during his lifetime one of the deans of the American Band Movement. He was a member of every professional band organization and served as president of the Florida Music Educators Association, American Bandmasters Association, and the College Band Directors National Association. He was revered on campus and across the nation. My other music professors were also Black and accomplished musicians as well. With a student population of 4,000 students, our classes were small and, fortunately for us, were taught by full professors and not graduate assistants. The applied music staff was extraordinary, and our structural classes were very good. As a result, FAMU students developed a strong sense of self-confidence and pride in their ability.

However, it was the FAMU Marching 100 Band which set us apart from the rest. The all-Black band had a storied past with performances on national television, including three Super Bowls. They also earned the prestigious Sudler Trophy for outstanding marching band achievements. Dr. Foster was insistent that we rehearsed in excellent facilities and traveled in coach line buses with accommodations in four-star hotels. We seldom saw signs of racism while associated with the band. Most people were in awe of our musicianship and showmanship.

My FAMU years had a huge impact on my future years. To be sure, there were challenges with unequal services that were racially motivated. It was evident that the state legislature had for years been very unequal in financial disbursements to the state-supported colleges in Florida. Although the state government didn’t support FAMU at the same rate as our White counterparts, we were focused on our studies, and the band was an oasis for us on our campus. We had great facilities and the environment was very conducive for learning. We were fully aware of racial strife in America, and the Anti-Apartheid Movement in South Africa was a major focus. My FAMU years were the springboard I needed to move forward and compete any place at any time.

STUDENT TEACHING WITH PAY

My student teaching assignment took place at Booker T. Washington High School in Atlanta, Georgia, during spring quarter of 1976. Booker T. Washington was the high school where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. attended and was the oldest African American high school in Georgia. My supervising teacher was Bobby G. Jordan, a very successful band director who led one of the finest marching and concert bands in the state. Mr. Jordan was also a FAMU graduate. With four weeks left in my nine-week student teaching assignment, I received a call from Dr. Robert Waggoner, supervisor of music in the Atlanta Public Schools. He wanted to know if I was interested in teaching at Murphy High School, an all-African American high school in Atlanta, for the remainder of the school term. Teaching for pay while student teaching? Absolutely!

This was pivotal for several reasons. The band had four directors in three years. The current band director simply left in the middle of the day and the program was in shambles. The assistant principal and other district officials escorted me into the room, and we were welcomed inside by the fresh smell of marijuana. Strangely, the school principal was nowhere to be found. A few boys were gambling in the corner while others were taking instruments apart in the instrument storage room. If I had not accepted this position, the music supervisor would have been required to serve as Murphy’s band director for the remainder of the year. This supervisor was a middle-aged White man who was not particularly fond of Blacks. My hire was both a political move and highly racist. He never expected much for the students. I was just a placeholder. After we performed at commencement ceremonies, I was offered the job for the next year. I had plans to attend graduate school at the University of Michigan as a trumpet major and study in the studio of Armando Ghitalla, former principal trumpet in the Boston Symphony Orchestra. A few months before my student teaching experience, my mother, who lived one hour away, was diagnosed with cancer, and I chose to remain in Atlanta to teach a few years and be close to her. God worked his master plan, and I accepted the job at Murphy High School, changing my life’s professional and personal trajectory forever.

FIRST JOB: MURPHY HIGH SCHOOL

After graduating from FAMU, I accepted a position as band director at Murphy High School, an all-Black school located in the inner city of metropolitan Atlanta that was part of the Atlanta Public School System, one of the largest in the state at that time. It was in a very rough low-income neighborhood. When I began teaching there in 1976, it had a reputation as the most dangerous school in the district. Due to the high degree of crime found on the campus, Murphy was nicknamed Murder High, and during my first year a student was nearly murdered just outside my band room.

At the time, the band program wasn’t very good, as no student could play a major scale and most could only read at an early middle school level. I began the program with sixty participants, and they had not performed a formal concert in several years. All I knew was I wanted a band, and I wanted to make music with the band. I began the first week by dismissing many of the older students, non-cooperative students in the band, and kept the majority of the ninth and tenth grade students, leaving a core of roughly thirty-eight students remaining at the beginning of the season. Interestingly, two weeks into the season, several academically strong students who had quit the band the previous year came back and re-joined the group. They were good players and anchored the band moving forward. My question was: How did the principal, music supervisor, and school district ignore these students? Perhaps they felt like poor children couldn’t learn at the rate of others.

I was quite dismayed to learn that the school board allowed for schools on the south side (mostly Black schools) not to be funded at the same rate as schools on the north side (White schools). The district was previously mostly White, and when the browning of the school district began to occur in the late 1960s, White flight to the north side and suburban communities began to change the face of the district. Institutional racism was staring me squarely in the face.

Given the history of America’s past, this chronic system of racism stood directly in the path of my students’ opportunity for advancement and their ability to enjoy the study of music at the highest levels. Our school principal was a charming older White Southern gentleman who remained the school principal as it transitioned from White to Black. During my six years as the band director at Murphy High School, he was seldom seen around the building and could always be found in his office. He arrived an hour before school began and left campus a few minutes before the dismissal bell. He seldom returned to the campus for concerts, meetings, or athletic events. It was as though he was afraid to interact with the student population.

Having low expectations is a form of institutional racism, which can ruin dreams and aspirations for generations. As we were preparing for our annual district evaluation in February of 1980, the gymnasium, which housed the band room, was without heat. The low temperature overnight was just above freezing. My students wore large coats and gloves as they worked on their music in class. Each morning for three days, I met with the principal to inquire as to when we would have heat in the band room. He never came to inspect the room but simply said without looking up, Tomorrow. I didn’t believe him, so on the fourth day I moved the entire concert band, including every drum I could find, directly in front of his office (which had heat) and began performing Alfred Reed’s Armenian Dances, Part I. He was furious. I was willing to risk my job to fight his racist motives. The following morning, the band room had ten portable heaters going full blast. I had made my point.

Later, several of my other direct music supervisors were giants who loved children. Dr. Alfred Wyatt, Dr. Joan Zion, and Mr. Curtis Byrdsong were excellent and caring administrators who fought for equality for our band area. One of my mentors and music supervisors was Dr. Mary Frances Early. Dr. Early was a fine music educator who had a stern spine and fought for equality in the schools assigned to her. She was a great role model and very intelligent. She is the only Black person to become president of the Georgia Music Educators Association. She was also the first Black to graduate from the University of Georgia. Today, the University of Georgia School of Education is named in honor of Dr. Mary Frances Early.

After my sixth year as director of bands at Murphy High School, I was recruited by Robert J. Cowles, Marguerite Wilder, Barry Morgan, and Cobb County Schools music supervisor Boyd McKeown. They encouraged me to apply for the job as director of bands at Lassiter High School, a brand new school in the nearby Cobb County School District. The district was a 95 percent White school and located in one of the northern suburbs of Atlanta, thirty-five minutes from Murphy. This was in 1982, and Cobb County did not have a reputation as a very welcoming community for Blacks and other minorities. Did I really want to leave the friendly environment of my well-developed Black program and go to the affluent White suburbs? After much discussions with friends, family, and hours of prayer, I applied for the job. Interestingly, I was also offered the Lassiter job in the previous year but had turned it down. A band director worked for one year at Lassiter and resigned. The Cobb County Schools offered me the job, and I accepted it. I was particularly concerned about the racial element involved in the transition from a poor inner city all-Black program to an affluent White program. I was concerned as to how I would be accepted. I wasn’t ready to leave the cocoon of my Black school and my Black community. I had attended all Black schools for ten of twelve grade school years, attended an HBCU, and then taught at an African American high school for six years. Why on earth would I want to do anything otherwise? The band program had boundless potential and I was constantly reminded of that every year. Failure was not an option.

FIRST DAY AT LASSITER HIGH SCHOOL

To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heavens.

ECCLESIASTES 3:1–8

On my first day on the job at Lassiter, I was in rehearsal and getting ready for band camp. I walked over to a student in the flute section and just kind of touched the back of her chair—just talking and using the room as my classroom to keep the attention of the children. She flinched and was obviously frightened. I immediately went back to the podium and said, Okay, we need to talk. Lower your stands. I’m your band director and I’m Black. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m going to stay Black. I can’t help that you’re White. Those are your problems. I’m not going to bother you. I’m just your band director and I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not going anywhere. That was it. I wrote the date on the blackboard, 7-29-82, and told them to never forget that day. That was the transition. I faced it head-on and said Okay, let’s go on about our business here.

On my first afternoon at Lassiter, tensions rose again when the band proceeded to the practice field in the parking lot adjacent to the main road. A pickup truck with seven adolescent White boys drove by and yelled, Go home, n*****! I was fuming! The truck went along for another five hundred feet or so and began to turn around for a return visit. This time I was prepared. I knew they were going to come back and try yelling again. True to form, they came back and I yelled to the top of my voice, Go to hell! My new band was terrified and so were the band parents in attendance. Shortly afterwards I dismissed the band and went home.

I fully expected school officials to call me in to discuss the matter, and sure enough, there was a note in my box in the teacher’s mailroom on Monday morning for me to see the school principal. I went into the principal’s office and he was furious at me. He scolded me for using profanity in front of the band and questioned my professionalism. I listened to him very patiently. He asked me if the version passed on to him was correct, and I replied yes. I then proceeded to inform him that I did not have a problem, but his community did. I suggested that he contact the kids in that pickup truck and scold them because I was only defending my personal honor. I proceeded to ask him if there was another topic he wished to discuss with me while I was in his office. In other words, I thought this conversation was over. I left and that was that. I was not going to be harassed or bullied by anyone. My previous life’s experiences had prepared me for that moment. I would not be